


The Road Less Travelled

by AssassinOfRome



Category: Dead Poets Society (1989), House M.D.
Genre: Death Fic, Everyone shouts at Neil Perry, Faked Suicide, He sort of deserves it, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Lung Cancer, Male Homosexuality, Mentions of Suicide, Multi, Neil Perry Lives, Neil Perry is James Wilson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 13:14:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3121496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AssassinOfRome/pseuds/AssassinOfRome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charlie’d always known his days were numbered, but he’d never quite expected a diagnosis to prove it. Still, it’s not as if he’s got much to leave behind. Until his oncologist walks through the door, and suddenly there’s a lot left still to fight for. </p><p>A sort of fix-it fic where Neil Perry lives but under the pseudonym James Wilson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Road Less Travelled

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first DPS fic, and my very first fanfic on AO3 (yay?) 
> 
> Not sure how frequently this'll be updated, but I've got a steady plan, so hopefully it won't take too long. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy, and if you can, leave a comment!

Cancer. Fucking cancer. 

In all fairness, he shouldn't really be surprised.

Hedonism always had its price, and since being expelled from Welton, he’d done his best to try everything once, whether it be cigarettes, drink, drugs (nothing more than speed, and he didn't even like that very much) or girls. Hell, even some boys had snuck past the stage door at his gigs and Charlie had never been one to say no to pleasure.  
Here it was, biting him in the arse, though.

The doctor’s office was nice, as far as doctors’ offices go. The walls were a muted green, but they were hard to see past all the embellishments. Two large movie posters hung – their themes oddly contrasting with the air of comfort. Behind the cluttered desk was a mahogany bookshelf filled with books and knick-knacks. Several important looking certificates were proudly framed, their fonts almost unreadable in their smallness. Charlie’s favourite part was the teddy bear perched jauntily on a shelf. The white lab coat he wore seemed brighter against the golden fur, and a tiny stethoscope hung around his neck. His glass eyes were curious, head tilted to one side. It was almost as if the bear was doing the diagnosing.

He wondered how much longer he’d have to wait. The blonde nurse had said that Doctor Wilson was in a meeting, but would be in his office for one o’clock. It was nearly half past, and still there was no sign. Charlie wondered if he should sneak out and get some coffee, but thought better of it. Hospital coffee was always disgusting – he could practically taste the diseases in it.

Lung cancer. He wondered how long he had left. A year? Six months? But he had so many plans – so many places he still wanted to visit. His breath caught in his throat. Would he ever see Louisiana, play his saxophone in the smoky blues bars like he’d always dreamed?

A cough pushed its way up his throat and he winced, cupping his hands over his mouth. He should have seen this sooner – should have cared when playing made him breathless. For a long time, he’d assumed it was adrenaline; the high he was always chasing finally finding him and leaving him giddy in its wake. The tiredness? Gigs often ran late, and he was often up for all hours, playing the sax until his voice was hoarse. Chest and shoulder pains he attributed to carrying the damn thing – it was so heavy. The coughing, he’d ignored and the blood… well nothing good could come of coughing up blood. He’d ignored that too, until his bandmates had forced him to get a check-up.

He didn't want this – it wasn't fair. Sure, he understood that cancer had to happen to some people, but why him? He’d tried his best to be a good person, despite the ravages of a musician’s life. He helped with the homeless when he could, and baby-sitted for his sisters whenever they asked. Maybe he hadn't done anything earth-shattering with his life, but he was only just getting started. He needed more time.

He was only 38.

Maybe he should call someone; he wasn't sure if he could drive home. But who? His parents were both long dead, and his sisters were states away. He could call a member of the band, but he doubted any of them would answer. None of them tended to be awake during the day; they were like vampires, the lot of them. The Lost Boys born again.

The door opened, and Charlie sniffed, wiping his eyes. He didn't even realise how much he’d been crying, but the evidence was clear on his sticky cheeks. Maybe he should ask for a tissue; there was a box of them in the corner of the room. It looked well-used, which wasn't exactly comforting.  
Turning in his seat, he spied the oncologist. He was a handsome man, there was no doubts about that. His brown hair looked immaculate, as did his crisp white shirt. The sleeves were pushed up to the elbows, and the man was wearing one of the ugliest ties Charlie had ever seen. It would have been funny, if he hadn't glanced at the man’s face.  
The doctor blinked, just as shocked as Charlie felt. He could see the beginnings of a lie brewing in those dark eyes. Up and down, they glanced, taking in every inch. Charlie felt like he was being xrayed, and the thought alone made his skin crawl. The dishonesty faded, and all that was left was apprehension.

"Nuwanda?” His voice sounded exactly the same as Charlie remembered, the dramatic tones as subtle and soft as he remembered. And he knew the nickname. Sure Nuwanda was his stage name now – Charlie Dalton was pathetic, really – but that wasn't included on any of his personal documents. Either this slightly frumpy looking doctor had been to see one of his shows, or it was in fact…  
“Neil? Neil Perry?” He tried to joke, suddenly self-conscious of his weepy persona. Nuwanda never cried. “Is that you behind that tie?”

The doctor didn't say anything, but he didn't have to. The recognition was there, burned in to his eyes like a cattle brand. Neil Perry was alive and well, in New Jersey, of all places. A doctor, like his old man had always said.

This was shaping up to be a very interesting afternoon.


End file.
